


Like a Cinema

by Jayswing



Series: The Colt's Crossbow [2]
Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Drabble Collection, Fluff and Angst, Kid Fic, M/M, mostly just angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-26
Updated: 2014-05-31
Packaged: 2018-01-20 20:24:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 7,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1524368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jayswing/pseuds/Jayswing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rickyl fills from tumblr. <a href="http://ofcoltsandcrossbows.tumblr.com/message">Hit me up.</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Request:  
> "Are you till taking prompts? I'd like to see a Rickyl reunion with a hug. No Claimers."

He thinks that Carl and Michonne are talking, probably arguing about candy or comics. He thinks that that’s what the hum in his ears is, but he’s not really sure.

They haven’t seen him yet. But he doesn’t know how they  _couldn’t_ have. Because he’s standing there like a damn beacon and he hasn’t seen him yet and Rick’s sure he’s never looked more beautiful. 

Even from this distance, he can see he’s got a black eye. It doesn’t belong there, not on  _that_ beautiful skin. He’s used to dirt and grime on that cheek, but that’s just a part of how they lived now. He can wipe that away with a cloth wet with precious water. Rick wonders if maybe his kisses will free the skin of its blemish.

It crosses his mind that he’s hallucinating. It’s happened before, and he’s well aware that losing  _him_ was far more similar to losing his wife than either of them would ever care to admit. But he shakes the thought away, because he’d never imagine him bruised or hurt in any way. It’s him, all right. He knows that jacket, those scruffy angel wings that seem to flutter with every movement of his broad shoulders. 

Rick’s not sure when he had begun to run. Maybe it started as a jog before it turned into a sprint, or maybe he’d been sprinting all along. All he knows that Daryl’s too far away and his feet aren’t bringing Rick to him fast enough, regardless if he’s sprinting or walking. 

He’s about halfway there when Daryl turns around to see him. Rick lets a little smile tug up his lips, because  _of course_ the hunter had known he was coming. He couldn’t remember one time he’d surprised the hunter coming up behind him. Maybe he’d pretend like he didn’t, but Rick knew how he’d tense up otherwise, like he was expecting blows instead of a gentle embrace. His heart might have broken for him once upon a time, but that’d been before he realized that the important part was that Daryl let Rick  _touch_ him. 

There’s a brief moment of hesitation, a stagger in his direction, before Daryl’s running, too. He’s close enough where Rick can see the birthmark above the corner of his lips, his fucking  _gorgeous_ lips, the sheen of sweat over his skin, sticking his dark hair to his forehead. Rick doesn’t think he’s ever appreciated how truly beautiful Daryl is

And then, they’re there. Only a few inches away from each other, panting not from the running, stopped dead like the very world has stopped breathing. Maybe it has. Neither of them would know. 

Rick swallows down the dryness in his throat, remembers that Carl and Michonne are nearby, that they’ve never let anyone know about what they did behind closed doors. He reaches out a hand to Daryl, because, at this point, he thinks that just touching him would be salvation. 

But Daryl makes an impatient noise in his throat, the ones he’d make when Rick decided to tease him with random kisses and caresses that drove him mad. He grabs Rick’s arm and pulls him forward into his chest, wrapping his arms— _god,_ his ridiculously strong arms—around him. He buries his face in the crook of Rick’s neck, and he can feel him snuffling against the skin there. He figures that what he finds satisfies him, because he draw his head back, looks into Rick’s eyes, and there are most certainly not tears there, because Rick knows Dixons don’t cry. 

"Glad to see you made it out," Rick whispers, and he hopes that Daryl knows what an understatement it really is. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Easter drabble as a gift for my lovely Masa (nonormynolife.tumblr.com).

Daryl’s a few minutes late for his kindergarten class, but the teacher just smiles at him, tells him to take his seat. He bows his head and sits down next to Rick, pulling down the sleeve of his shirt to hide the fresh bruises on his arm. Rick knows about the bruises and where he gets them, but it doesn’t mean he wants the other boy to worry. There are some things that, even at five, Daryl knows to keep to himself.

And he’s glad that he does hide the bruises, because Rick’s smiling like he’s the happiest kid in the world. Maybe he is. All Daryl knows is that the minute he sees that grin, he’s smiling, too, and he forgets the way his daddy yelled at him last night. Before he has a chance to talk to the boy, the teacher calls their attention to the front of the class.

“Good morning, everyone,” she says, smiling at them all widely. Everyone throws the words back at her, except for Daryl. He still doesn’t like to talk.

“Do any of you know what this Sunday is?” the teacher asks.

“Easter!” one kid calls out, and there are sounds of agreement from the rest of the class, even from Rick. He doesn’t know what that word means. It sounds foreign in his ears, like _birthdays_  and  _Christmas_  and  _Thanksgiving_. He’d figured that, by now, he’d have learned all the things he didn’t know before kindergarten, but he guesses he’d been wrong.

“That’s right, Johnny. Now, this is a very special day. Does anyone wanna say why?” the teacher continues, and Rick raises his hand. He does that a lot, likes to talk and smile at everyone. More than anyone, though, he smiles and talks to Daryl.

“You wake up and there’s lots’a candy downstairs,” Rick says excitedly. “It’s from the Easter Bunny! And ya paint eggs all pretty and he hides ’em, and then the one who finds the most eggs wins!”

There’s a sound of approval that rises from the class, and the teacher grins. “Very good, Rick. What do all y’all want ta get from the Easter Bunny?”

“Chocolate bunnies!”

“Robin’s eggs!”

“Jelly beans!”

A cacophony of voices rises up in the classroom, and Daryl cringes back, lips firmly shut. He doesn’t know what any of those candies are, doesn’t have anything to contribute to the conversation. He sees Rick looking at him curiously from the corner of his eye, but Daryl keeps his gaze down. He’s sick of this, sick of the special days he doesn’t know about. More than anything, as the teacher calls order and starts her class, he hopes that Easter is the last holiday of the year.

* * *

 

The Monday after, Daryl walks into school with a black eye. He knows he can’t hide this from everyone, he feels his lip tremble slightly when Rick’s eyes grow wide when he sees him. It’s better than when he first asked him about them, but Daryl still wants to disappear.

“Hi, Daryl,” Rick says when Daryl sits next to him.

Daryl peeks up under his eyelashes to see Rick grinning as widely as always, and he cracks a little smile, too. “Hi,” he responds.

He listens apprehensively as other kids ask each other about their Easters. He’d thought this whole Easter business was over, but he’d apparently been wrong. Daryl looks at Rick anxiously, waiting for the inevitable question. He’s not sure if he can get away with lying. He tries to remember the sweets the other kids had mentioned last week, but he’s drawing a blank.

But Rick doesn’t say anything, just gives him a sad little smile and pulls something out of his pocket. It’s wrapped in colorful foil, and he realizes that the dabs of colors are meant to look like a bunny. He scrunches up his face in confusion. It doesn’t look like the rabbits Merle’d bring home and stew up for him. The only thing that really tells Daryl that it’s a rabbit are the big ears.

Rick holds out the pretend-bunny to him, and Daryl takes it hesitantly, looking up at the boy next to him in confusion. “What is it?” he asks, his voice only a little louder than a whisper.

“Open it up, it’s chocolate.” Daryl does, even though he doesn’t know what chocolate is. “Go on, eat it.”

He sinks his teeth into the brown solid, listens to the crack of it as it breaks under his teeth, sure it’d bring the attention of every child in the room to him. But they continue to ignore him, choosing to chatter happily amongst themselves. Daryl feels it—chocolate, Rick’d called it—melt in his mouth and slide down his throat, and he swirls his tongue around it, marveling at the smooth texture. He shuts his eyes at sudden, delightful taste of it, not sure how anything so damn  _sweet_  can exist. He’s never had anything this good, thinks it even beats the deer his brother’d prepared all special that one time. He opens his eyes again, looks into Rick’s sky blue eyes shining with happiness, happiness Daryl realizes he’d gotten just from giving Daryl a chocolate bunny.

“Happy Easter, Daryl.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt:  
> "Daryl and Rick take Judith to teach her how to swim, because who knows when she'll need to know that, and Rick discovers Daryl doesn't know how to either (who would have taught him, anyhow?)"

They tell themselves that they want to teach her how to swim because it’s important.  _What if there’s a herd of walkers and she can get away by swimmin’?_ But Daryl knows that it has something to do with Rick, maybe he wants to have these memories with Daryl, the same memories he had teaching Carl to swim with Lori. When he looks into those beautiful, sky-blue eyes, he can just see the memories swimming in them, the desire to make more there, too. 

Except Daryl doesn’t know how to swim. 

He’s never wanted to, either. Not since Merle dunked his head underneath in the river when they were kids, held him under ‘til he thought he was going to pass out. He’s terrified of water deeper than his waist, anything he can’t wade through, because he already felt like he’d been drowning his whole life without adding a literal aspect to it. Sure, the man he sleeps next to every night had pulled him out of that, but he’s as terrified of water as he is of the sound of a belt buckle in the morning. Those kinds of things just don’t fade, Daryl’s come to realize. 

But they’re at the lake, now, and Rick’s watching his little girl paddle about clumsily with the most beautiful fucking expression on his face. Daryl knows the only reason he can look this relaxed is because Daryl’s there, that he would die before letting anything happen to their little girl. He feels hot with shame when he realizes that Rick doesn’t know that he’d be worth shit if Judy started drowning, that he wouldn’t be able to do a damn thing about it because he can’t fucking swim, either. It wouldn’t stop him from going into the water and trying, but trying just wasn’t good enough for him. Never was good enough for Merle or his old man, either. 

But when Rick wades into the water after his daughter, the heat from the sun too adamant for him to stay out of it for much longer, Daryl begins to bite his thumb apprehensively. Rick sees immediately, picks Judith up out of the water so he won’t have to watch her for a minute. His eyes are only on Daryl, and all he can think about is how much of a goddamn fuckup he is. 

"Don’t you wanna come in?" Rick asks, holding onto Judith firmly when she tries to wriggle out of his arms and return to the water’s embrace. 

Daryl shakes his head. “I’m gonna keep watch.” 

He has to turn his face away, because he just can’t stand to look at the crestfallen expression in Rick’s eyes. The man can be made of stone, not let a single emotion loose, but his eyes always spoke volumes. It’s part of the reason Daryl loves him so much, he thinks. Even if it’s making his throat close up with emotions and eyes sting with what he’d never acknowledge as tears. 

* * *

 

"Daryl." 

The voice permeates his subconscious, and he’s awake immediately. He blinks blearily around the dim room, eyes adjusting until they rest on familiar, beautiful blue. 

"Whassup?" he asks, voice drunken with sleep. 

Rick smiles fondly at him and takes his hand, pulls him off the bed as he stands up. “Where we goin’?” Daryl asks, immediately alert. “Is it walkers?” 

The man shakes his head, a little smile tugging at his gorgeous, full lips. They look even darker than usual in the din of their room, and Daryl is about to give into the urge to kiss him when Rick goes to the back door connected to the bedroom. He opens it, lets the cool, moist night breeze wash over them. They both take a minute to breathe in the air, eyes closed, before Rick steps out into the night without another word, knowing that Daryl,  _of course,_ will follow. 

He trails after Rick for a while, taking the time to admire how the moon’s pale light shifts over the smooth skin of his back, morphs as the firm muscles of his shoulders move as he walks. He’s painfully aware how the moonlight will never shine on him with such perfection, how he looks so much better in the dark. 

Daryl hears the water before he sees it. Even the slight breeze is enough to send minuscule waves lapping at the shore, and he fights down the panic that’d been residing in him ever since their expedition to teach Judith how to swim. He’s lost sight of Rick, and that just makes him more anxious, and he knows that he’d jump into any goddamn ocean to save that man—his children, too. So he pushes through the trees, anyway, finds the man standing waist deep in the inky black water, comely, dark hair slicked back and still gloriously curly. 

Then he holds out a hand to Daryl, and Daryl backs away, looking for any excuse to keep from going out into that water. But Rick just looks too damn alluring, standing there with his moon-dyed skin glowing and his eyes soft and pleading. Daryl takes a tentative step forward, feels the water—warm in comparison to the cool night air—lick between his toes. He keeps his eyes firmly fixed on Rick, desperately reaches out his hand to clasp the other man’s so that there’ll be  _someone_ to keep him from going under. 

Daryl’s shuddering and quivering when he finally stands within inches of his lover, and Rick automatically wraps his arms around him, pushes his head down onto his shoulder. Daryl squeezes his eyes shut, tries to enjoy the silky feeling of the water around him like everyone else seemed to. 

"How did you know?" Daryl finally whispers, drawing his head to look at Rick. 

But Rick doesn’t respond other than to draw Daryl in for a soft, tender kiss, the way his lips knead against Daryl’s so different from their usual passion. He lets the heat from the man wash over him, relax him, vanquish the tremors still running through him. 

As Rick slowly leads him into deeper waters, arms firmly around him like they  _always_ were, he realizes how stupid his question had been. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt:  
> "OHFMMDLGKSM I HAVE ANOTHER PROMPT FOR WHENEVER YOU WANNIT. FOR ONCE INSTEAD OF IT BEING A FEMALE CHARACTER WHO TWISTS HER ANKLE AND HAS TO LIMP AROUND AND BE CARRIED EVERYWHERE IT'S DARYL. SO RICK HAS TO HELP HIM AROUND AND PICKS HIM UP AND SHIT AOSFSMDLKGMKLSMG YES"

_"C’mon, baby brother," his big brother jeers from above. "You too pussy to come up here?"_

_"Shut up, Merle," Daryl replies, hanging onto the tree branch for dear life. "I’m comin’!"_

_"You’re burnin’ daylight, son," Merle says, flashing him his cold grin. "I ain’t got all day!"_

_Daryl ignores him, sticks his tongue out between his teeth as he hauls himself up higher into the tree. He doesn’t look down. The ground spins whenever he looks at it, and his head joins it. Daryl really doesn’t want to throw up. Merle’ll make fun of him._

_He tugs on a branch just above his head, and suddenly Merle’s mocking face is concerned. “Daryl! Not that one—”_

_But it’s too late. The rotted branch breaks under his weight, and suddenly, Daryl’s tumbling backwards through empty space. He sees his brother’s face getting farther and farther away, hears him telling him to land on his feet. Daryl tries to do what he says, writhing around in empty oblivion, and he manages to get his feet underneath him._

_He doesn’t feel the impact until he_ does.  _And then he’s crying and whimpering and clutching his leg to him, because he’s almost positive he heard something crack and the only thing that tells him that his ankle’s still attached to him is the agony ripping through it. He hears the sound of Merle clambering down from above, and his brother’s face wavers in his tear-blurred vision. He looks angry, and Daryl whimpers, curls tighter in on himself, because he knows he fucked up and he’s gonna have to pay for it._

When Daryl goes sprawling into the dirt, he knows that his ankle isn’t broken. He doesn’t think he’d ever be able to miss the crack of bones shattering, and the pain he feels twinging in his ankle is nothing compared to what a real break would feel like. It still hurts like a  _bitch,_ though, and Daryl figures it’s what he deserves for being so goddamn careless. Again. 

Daryl feels at his ankle, hisses at how the pain in it is increasing by the second. It’s his bad ankle, the one that never healed right, the one that turns in slightly when he walks because the bones had healed all crooked despite Merle’s makeshift splint. He can see it swelling by the second, and he knows he’s not going to be able to walk on it for a while. Just his fucking luck. 

"Daryl!"  _Fuck._ He’d forgotten that Rick was hunting with him, checking the snares. “Daryl, what happened?” Must’ve heard him grunt when he fell—Daryl most certainly didn’t shout. 

"M’fine," Daryl calls, trying to keep the pain out of his voice. He hears the former sheriff’s infuriatingly loud footsteps as he steps through the undergrowth and pushes his way into the clearing. His sharp eyes take in the clearing until they rest on Daryl, and then everything careful is driven out of his eyes by plain  _worry._

"What happened?" he asks, and Daryl recognizes the voice he adopts whenever it comes to Judith and Carl. 

"I fell," Daryl says, elaborating quickly when Rick raises an eyebrow, "tripped, more like. Fuckin’ stupid." 

Rick sighs, kneels down next to Daryl. He pushes Daryl’s bracing hands away gently, looks at the damage. “That’s your bad ankle,” Rick comments, concern in his voice. “That why it’s swellin’ so bad?” 

Daryl stares at him in shock. “How did ya know ‘bout that?” He’s never mentioned that to anyone; he’d always been too ashamed. 

"People usually ain’t pigeon-toed in just one foot. Figured it had ta be an old injury," Rick says nonchalantly before he goes to rip away part of his sleeve to begin wrapping Daryl’s ankle. 

His touch is gentle, doesn’t hurt like it did when Merle’d wrapped his break all those years ago. Part of him wants to believe it’s because that injury had been worse, and another part of him wants to believe something else entirely. 

"How’s that?" Rick asks when he finishes tying off the bandage. 

"Good," Daryl mutters. "We get any game?" He doesn’t like the way Rick is staring at him. 

"Nothin’," Rick says regretfully. "Traps were sprung, though. Walkers got whatever we caught."

"Son of a bitch," Daryl groans. Not only did they lose food that could feed their family—Li’l Asskicker, too, he remembers with a pang—but there were also walkers around, too. And, thanks to Daryl, they were sitting here with their asses hanging out. 

"We gotta get back." Rick voices his thoughts and sends an anxious look over his shoulder. "It’s gonna be dark soon. Can you walk?"

Daryl nods, but he knows he really can’t. He reaches for a nearby branch, and the image of it crumbling underneath his touch flashes before his eyes. He flinches back, and Rick tilts his head to the side curiously. Thankfully, he says nothing, just offers Daryl his hand. Daryl takes it gratefully and hauls himself up, balancing awkwardly with most of his weight on one foot.

"Okay?" 

"Mhmm," Daryl growls, attempting to shuffle forward. The minute he lets any weight rest on his ankle, he lets out a pained whimper, and the ground’s rushing up to meet him far too quickly. 

But he never makes contact with the ground. He’s pressed up against some kind of heat, a steely loop of it around his waist and gripping his hip. It takes him a minute to realize that it’s Rick holding him up, and he flushes red.

"C’mon, you ain’t gonna make it on your own," Rick says matter-of-factly. 

Daryl’s a stubborn son of a bitch, but he’s not one to argue with logic, and Rick has endless amounts of that. Plus, he’s never really had an excuse to let the man touch him like this. The warmth pressed against his side is a good distraction from the pain in his ankle. So he nods, throws his arm over the man’s shoulders, and Rick gives him a hint of a smile. Daryl likes how it pulls at his pretty red lips. They begin walking, and Daryl’s surprised at how little it hurts with Rick carrying nearly all of his weight. 

They’re making slow progress, though, and the sun’s beginning to go to its resting place beneath the horizon. Daryl shields his eyes against the still-bright light, and he discreetly casts a nervous look into the fuzzily darkening woods around them. 

"Y’should go on ahead," Daryl suggests. "Get the car, come back fer me after." 

"No," Rick says bluntly. "We’re stayin’ together." 

Daryl sighs. He knows that voice. It’s the voice that told people that he wasn’t to be fucked with, the voice he had that night after the farm. He knows a lost cause when he sees one, and arguing with Rick certainly fits the criteria. Still, it’s not the same kind of lost cause like when he tried to get Merle off all those drugs, or when he tried to reason with his old man. 

Daryl’s so caught up in his own thoughts that he doesn’t hear what makes Rick suddenly go rigid against him. 

"What is it?" Daryl hisses in his ear, carefully scanning their surroundings. "Walkers?"

But Rick doesn’t respond. He just ducks down and sweeps Daryl’s legs out from under him, hefts him up into his arms like he’s a damn  _girl._ Daryl lets out an undignified squawk, and the idea to struggle crosses his mind. He quickly shoos it away, though, because he knows Rick wouldn’t be acting like this unless there was something wrong. 

The man takes off at quick pace with him in his arms, and Daryl does everything he can to keep it so that it’s easier for Rick to carry him. He clamps his arms around the man’s neck and buries his face in his neck, nose nuzzling at the soft hair licking behind his ears. Well, maybe that part’s more of giving into an urge, but he doesn’t think Rick will care. 

The car’s in sight, now, and there’s still no sign of the threat Rick had decided they needed to run from. Daryl breathes a sigh of relief. 

"Guess the walker was too busy eatin’ our game," Daryl grumbles, pulling his face away from where it’d rested against Rick’s shoulder. 

He raises his eyes to look at the man, and he’s fucking  _smiling._

"The fuck’s so funny?" Daryl asks, narrowing his eyes. He can’t help but feel like he’s the one Rick’s laughing at, even though he knows better. 

"Uh…" Rick tries and fails to vanquish his smile, and, despite how pissed he is, Daryl’s kind of glad. "There wasn’t a walker."

He just stares at Rick as he puts all the pieces together. Then, he starts to struggle in his arms, feeling a little sick with humiliation. Was he really such a weak link that Rick had to pretend to see a damned fucking walker just so he could carry him like some bitch? “You’d best let me go!” Daryl yells, and he winces at the pain that lances through his leg. 

"Daryl, your ankle—" 

"Fuck my damned ankle! You’re gonna pay for this, Grimes, I swear—" 

He’s cut off when Rick presses his lips against Daryl’s, and the hunter goes slack in his arms. “How else was I supposed ta get you ta let me hold ya?” 

To that, Daryl  _really_ has no answer. He didn’t know how to respond to all this soppy bullshit. Doesn’t mean he didn’t like it, though. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt:   
> "or better if Rick dies in Daryl's arms? it's not rly better but i'm sitting here in the bus crying thinking about their inevitable demises :("

And then he’s on the son of a bitch, the growling, undead son of a bitch. His arm is at his throat, and he’s stabbing it  _everywhere._ Its chest, its shoulder, its jaw—everything except its brain. He wants it to suffer, and it just makes him angrier when there’s not even a semblance of a reaction, just the constant hungered moan as it smells the blood dripping from a gash above his eyebrow. 

"Daryl."

He ignores the voice at first, just keeps stabbing, his breaths coming out in exerted little pants that he’ll never admit sound more like sobs. 

“ _Daryl._ "  _  
_

Something in its tone makes Daryl end it, plunging his blade in the the walker’s head with a feral snarl, and he doesn’t feel any better when the fucker finally goes limp, stops snapping its hanging jaws at him, hands dropping to the ground.

He turns around to face the man, eyes tearing up when he sees him wavering on his feet, clutching a wound that Daryl’d hoped would disappear once he killed the son of a bitch who put it there. He’s pale, and not in the delicious, moonlight way that makes Daryl want to trace his tongue over the skin. He looks sick. He looks like death.

And as much as Daryl wants to stagger away and cry and let whatever the fuck came across him put him out of his misery, he’s there to catch him when he falls. And even when they both know how this is going to end, he cups the side of Rick’s face and says, “It’s okay. You’re okay.” 

Rick’s struggling to keep his eyes open, and Daryl thinks he’s been foolish to think his lips were ever red before.  _This_ is red, stained by blood as he bleeds out from the inside. And those lips are moving, and no sound’s coming out, and Daryl wishes more than anything that his voice would caress his ears once more. 

"T-take care of Carl," Rick wheezes, and Daryl wishes he’d never spoken at all. "And Judith." 

"I can’t," Daryl says, and his voice is hardly more than a whisper. "I can’t do it without ya, Rick. Don’t ask me ta do that." 

And then he smiles. He  _smiles,_ damn him. “You can,” Rick rasps. “You heard her. She calls ya ‘Papa’, remember?” 

“‘cause she doesn’t know better,” Daryl replies, but he’s only thinking of how he’s going to tell those children that he’d let their father die. 

"No." Rick coughs, and more blood flicks out to stain his lips. "It’s ‘cause she knows you, Daryl. Just like I do." His beautiful blue eyes well up with tears, and Daryl has to bite his lip to keep his own back. "I love you, Daryl."

Daryl just blinks at him. They’ve never said it, never put voice to what they shared. And now, he’s really regretting never telling the man  _exactly_ how he felt. But, even now, he doesn’t know how to tell this man that’s he’s his everything. “Don’t say it like it’s a damn goodbye.” But Rick’s eyes are sliding closed, and, despite himself, he shakes the man’s shoulders roughly. “You hear me?” He has to fight to keep his voice from rising to a yell. 

Rick just smiles, eyelids fighting to stay open, and even that tiny movement seems to take a world of effort. His hand—his beautiful, slender hand—travels over to the holster at Daryl’s hip, and he wraps his fingers around the hilt of Daryl’s knife. And, even though it hurts and even though he wants to pretend that he doesn’t know what Rick wants, he curls his hand around Rick’s and unsheathes the blade. It’s shaking violently as he presses it to Rick’s temple, and the relief in his blue eyes is like a physical pain ripping through his chest—through his very heart. Except he forgets that his heart is with this man, held between his too-warm hands, and he thinks it’ll freeze over when those hands go cold. 

But he can’t worry about that, because this is what Rick wants, and he knows he’ll do anything for him. He presses his lips to Rick’s forehead, then his cheeks, and finally his lips as he adjusts his grip on the hilt of his knife. 

Daryl squeezes his eyes shut as he lets his quick, sobbing breaths wash over Rick’s blood-tainted lips. And, right before his blade slides home, he whispers, “I love you, too.” 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt:   
> "A walker almost gets Rick which makes Daryl flip out because he can't lose Rick. Author's choice if it's written as an established relationship or maybe this will make them realize what they truly feel for each other."

He’s about to turn around, nod at the man like he always does after a successful mission of covering each other’s backs, be it against walkers or the silence of this new world. But his eyes widen, because there’s one that they’d missed—that  _he’d_ missed—coming up behind Rick, rotted, disgusting teeth glinting, talon-like fingers stretched toward him.

“ _Rick!”_

The name’s a rush of bird’s wings in panicked flight as it leaves him, and the whole world seems to slow down as Rick turns around to face the attack. Daryl’s breath freezes in his chest, because those teeth are mere  _inches_ from his neck, and suddenly Rick and the walker are on the ground. 

The struggle goes on for a few seconds, and Daryl can’t fucking  _breathe,_ let alone go and help him. But Rick’d already had his knife out, and then, the walker goes limp. Daryl can only be glad that he can’t hear the disgusting sound of its snapping jaws anymore, its gurgling growls. Rick pushes the rotting corpse off him, disgust twisting his fine features, and he gets to his feet. He runs a hand through his hair, and Daryl can tell he’s trying to be okay. But the hunter can see how shaken he is—the way your life flashes before your eyes every time you’re within a few feet of a walker doesn’t really fade. 

And Daryl’s eyes are glazed as they run over Rick, searching for any wound, because the fact that Rick is staring at him and coming closer and waving a hand in front of his eyes just isn’t enough to reassure him that he’s not about to lose  _him._

"Daryl." Rick says, craning his neck to meet his eyes. He raises his stricken gaze because even now he respects Rick too much to ignore him when he speaks. Or maybe the honey in his voice is just too alluring. Daryl doesn’t really know. "You okay?" 

Rick reaches out, and Daryl’s eyes dart to his extended hand. And there’s  _blood_ there. Red and thick and congealing over his skin, and Daryl’s heart feels like it’s going to jump out of his chest. He grips it in his hand, careful around the potential wound because this is already his fault and he would never forgive himself if he hurt Rick.

"You bit?" Daryl asks, and his voice cracks.

"No, Daryl." Rick looks confused, and Daryl realizes he’s not making any sense. "S’just some blood."

And Daryl knows that he should drop his hand, that he has no reason to hold it, but he just _can’t._ The feeling of his warm—but not too warm—skin against his reassures him, burns away the panic that’d been clogging up his throat and squeezing his heart in ways Daryl didn’t even know were possible. 

Rick tilts his head to the side, and he’s hesitant with what he does next. And Daryl can understand, because he’s shied away from enough hugs to know when one’s gonna happen. He doesn’t know how Rick knows to go so slow, but he does, and Daryl melts into his embrace, feels the man’s jaw rest atop his head. He squeezes his eyes shut and breathes him in, lets the scent of pine and woods and wind fill him. 

"I’m here." And there’s the implied, understood _till_ _I’m not,_ but it’s enough. 


	7. Chapter 7

It happens in the morning. 

It happens when the sun’s just peeking up from behind the trees, and only the first honeyed beams of light are shining through the barred windows of their prison—their home. 

Rick has always woken up with the sun, eyes cracking open just in time to meet its rays as the creep into his— _their_ —cell. 

He sighs into the warmth of the throat still beneath his lips, breathing in the woodsy scent of the man beside him. Daryl’s hand is still loosely tangled in his hair, and Rick’s palm is flat against his toned stomach, and, somewhere over the course of the night, Daryl had thrown his leg across Rick’s. Honestly, he’s just happy to get contact wherever he can. 

He’s surprised that Daryl’s still asleep. Maybe it’s because the birds haven’t quite started their chorus of chirping, yet. That’s usually what serves as Daryl’s alarm clock—like the hunter in him can’t resist the calls of a potential meal. Rick shrugs. It’s not often he gets to look at Daryl like this. Sleepy and warm and languid, dark, long lashes kissing his high cheekbones, face lax so the crow’s feet crinkling the skin around his eyes aren’t even visible. He looks young when he sleeps, reflects the softness, the sweetness he lets show more and more every day. 

Rick can’t help but kiss both of his eyelids, and they flutter underneath his administrations, revealing slits of gorgeous, almost transparent blue. 

"Mornin’," Rick whispers, leaning down to kiss the soft little smile that turns up Daryl’s lips. 

"Rick," Daryl murmurs, and Rick moves down to nibble at the tender skin of his throat. He moans in pleasure, buries his hands in Rick’s curly dark hair. "Love this," he mumbles, and he still sounds half asleep. "Love  _you.”_

And Rick can’t stop himself from going rigid with shock. It’s not that he doesn’t think Daryl loves him—the hunter’s shown him in more ways than could be said in any number of words. But he’s never said it, always just settled to draw Rick in for a slow, tender kiss when the words spilled from Rick’s mouth and into the minute space between them. 

His eyes flicker up from where his face is buried into Daryl’s collarbone, and the man has since come to full awareness, looks nervous, skittish. But there’s still something sure, something proud in the set of his jaw, the sparkle of his too-blue eyes. Maybe he didn’t mean to say it, but he’s not taking it back, he’s not running away, and,  _Jesus,_ he’s just told Rick that he loves him. 

Rick traces his hands up the straight lines of Daryl’s torso, smooths them over the firm muscles of his bare chest. He cranes his neck to kiss Daryl, and he meets him halfway, mouths open and wanting and panting into one another. “I love you, too,” Rick murmurs headily against Daryl’s swollen lips, and Daryl only hums in response, wrapping his arms around Rick and holding him tight like he’s the only thing in the entire world. Maybe to Daryl, he is. 

The first time Daryl tells him he loves him happens in the morning, and it becomes another reason that morning is Rick’s favorite time of day. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt:   
> "hey! do you know whether there's a rickyl au fic where Daryl is a hooker and Rick is a sheriff? maybe you've written smth like that on your blog?"

Rick stumbles when Shane pushes him into the room, the door slamming shut and silencing the sound of his friend’s laughter. He swallows and looks up from the floor, finding a man—no, Jesus, it’s a damn  _kid_ —standing near the bed. Rick’s glad that he’s still fully clothed. He doesn’t like this whole idea to begin with, only went along with it because Shane was a persistent motherfucker, and he doesn’t think he’d be able to take a kid who looked no older than nineteen bare and lying on the cheap satin sheets, pretending like he wanted this. 

"What’ll it be?" the boy asks in a monotone, a thick Southern accent laced through the words. He doesn’t look at Rick, just fumbles with the hem of his ratty tee shirt. Rick bites his lip. 

"I…" He clears his throat, because he doesn’t know what he’s fucking doing. He’s a sheriff, for god’s sake, and he’s in a goddamn whorehouse with a kid who’s ten years younger than him. "Um, I don’t… You wanna start by tellin’ me your name?" 

He can almost hear the boy roll his eyes. “Daryl.” He offers no continuation of a conversation, and, dammit, he’s still not looking at Rick. 

"Rick," the sheriff replies, because it just feels like the right thing to do. Something tells him that Daryl couldn’t care less what his name was, though. 

"Look, Rick," the boy says, and he finally looks at him, slanted blue eyes glinting with impatience. He looks far too old, like he’s seen far too much, and Rick’s heart aches for him. "I ain’t got all day, so d’ya wanna fuck or not?" 

"Um." He’s staggered by his bluntness—especially coming out of someone so young. He remembered when he was nineteen, still at the police academy, still a damn virgin, for god’s sake. And how could he sleep with a kid who so vehemently looked like he was going to absolutely hate it, anyhow? 

He  _is_ a sight, though. Actually, Rick would stretch to say he’s drop dead fucking gorgeous, in a strange way. High cheekbones, full lips, beautiful eyes, sexily tousled dark brown hair. He’s thin, probably too thin, but the way his thin tee-shirt hangs on him makes him look alluringly fragile. Still, it’s that delicacy, that steely vulnerability that makes him even more adamant about  _not_ doing what he’s supposed to be doing. 

Rick walks over to the bed, and he doesn’t miss how Daryl tenses up. He sits down, gestures to the spot next to him. “Maybe we could just talk,” Rick suggests, because he really doesn’t want to do this. 

"Talk?" Daryl asks incredulously. "You’re gonna pay me ta talk?" 

Rick shrugs. “This wasn’t my idea, y’know, and you don’t look too eager yourself.”

Daryl shrugs. “I do what I hafta. Don’t gotta like it.” He sits down hesitantly next to Rick, but his body’s still angled away from Rick’s. 

Rick furrows his brow. “There’re jobs everywhere.” 

Daryl cracks a wry little smile at that. “Not for me.” 

"Why?" 

It’s one of the many questions Daryl doesn’t answer in the next hour. There are some things he tells Rick about, though, like hunting and his asshole older brother and his favorite crossbow. He’s funny, charming in a refreshing, uncouth sorta way, and Rick absolutely adores his smile. It’s rare and short-lived and Rick doubts that many people have seen it. 

But there’re sad things there, too, probably a lot more than there are happy ones. Like how he’s been doing this since he turned sixteen and dropped out of high school, how Rick had been right—he  _is_ nineteen. How he had to do anything to find work with his brother gone. Rick never finds out why it had to be  _this,_ but he knows better than to ask again. He likes to focus on what makes Daryl smile, anyway, because he feels like he doesn’t do it as often as he should. 

"Hour’s almost up, Sheriff," Daryl says, batting his eyes coyly at Rick. If Rick didn’t know better, and maybe he doesn’t, he’d say that there’s reluctance flickering in those blue eyes. 

Rick nods and gets to his feet, takes out his wallet and pulls out three fifties, putting them between his fingers and holding them out to Daryl. The boy takes it, and a stunned expression takes over his face. “Hundred an’ fifty?” he asks. “Ya know you only owe me—”

Rick shrugs, holds up a palm to silence him. “Ya earned it. Gave me a fine night.” 

Daryl averts his eyes, mumbling something that sounds like a thank you, but Rick can’t tell. As he walks over to leave, his eyes can’t help but be drawn to a pen and notepad sitting on the little desk, every bit as tacky as the room they’re in. He picks them up, scribbles his number down, and he feels Daryl come up behind him, crane his neck over his shoulder to see what he’s writing. 

Rick turns around before he can, finding himself close enough to Daryl that he can feel the boy’s breath on his lips. Daryl backs away quickly, putting some distance between him and Rick, and Rick doesn’t let his mind linger on the fear he’d seen in his pretty blue eyes. Instead, he rips out the first page of the notepad, presses it into Daryl’s palm alongside the money still folded there. 

"Jus’ if you need somethin’," Rick says softly, and he turns around and leaves the room without another word, Daryl staring after him like he’s a goddamn apparition. Maybe he is. Daryl still hasn’t ruled that out as he tucks the note and the money in his pocket and steels himself for his next john. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Hi! I'm obsessed with your fics at the moment and I was wondering if you could write one with Daryl and Rick checking each other for ticks (that they never seem to get in the backwoods of Georgia...)"—[jaekakes](http://jaekakes.tumblr.com)

Daryl’s breath leaves him in a rush when he feels Rick’s arms wrap around his waist from behind, his bare, warm chest pressed to Daryl’s scarred back. He loses his grip on his shirt, and it falls to the ground, his newly freed hands going to cover Rick’s where they’re clasped over his toned, shredded stomach. 

"What’re ya doin’?" Daryl murmurs, feeling the man’s nose and his lips nudge at the base of his neck. He shivers when warm puffs of his breath wash over the sensitive skin there, raising goose bumps on his skin. 

"Checkin’ for ticks," Rick replies, and Daryl isn’t sure whether he heard him or read the outline of the words his lips formed against Daryl’s neck. 

Rick hands move up to Daryl’s shoulders, and he offers no resistance when the man encourages him to turn around with soft pressure on his skin. Rick doesn’t break eye contact as he curls his fingers around Daryl’s wrist, bringing his arm close to his face. His eyes flicker down for just a moment to inspect the skin, cool fingers ghosting down the skin, hardly there and so gentle Daryl feels his knees go weak. Daryl’s ready for him when he looks back up, ice blue eyes once again locked with his. Rick leaves a trail of wet kisses up the interior of Daryl’s arm, running his tongue up the rivers of his veins. Daryl wonders if Rick can feel his thudding heart pulsing through them, and he bites his lip to stop the moan trembling at the tip of tongue from escaping his lips. 

"Clean," Rick mutters as he finishes, kissing each of Daryl’s fingers before he lets his arm fall. Daryl hardly notices, too busy focusing on trying to keep his breathing even, not even caring when he utterly fails. 

But he’s forced to pay attention when he feels hands on his hips, surprised gaze flickering down to find Rick on his knees in front of him, inspecting the skin of his stomach, his fingers gentle and light and teasing and  _driving Daryl absolutely insane_ as they comb through the fine hair dusting the area. And when Rick kisses the thin skin covering the jutting bone of his hip, his legs almost buckle, and he buries his hands in Rick’s curly hair, sure that the locks underneath his fingers are the only thing keeping him from collapsing. And even that’s hardly enough when Rick starts nibbling and sucking at the skin, Daryl unable to keep his breathy groans back, heat rushing to his groin. 

"Clean," Rick says again, and Daryl can hardly hear him, his heartbeat deafening in his ears. 

But he  _does_ hear the sound of his belt being unbuckled, and he lets the pleasure fogging his mind keep him from wondering about why that might be. Still, weak, shaky hands bat Rick’s away from his jeans, eyes he doesn’t remember closing fluttering open. 

"Wait," he pants, and the sound throaty and desperate even in his own ears. 

Rick cocks his head to the side, cheeks ruddy and eyes every bit as lustful and impatient and needy as Daryl feels, but he retracts his touch without another word. Daryl meets Rick’s eyes stolidly, sinking to his knees in front of him. The heels of his palms press against Rick’s cheeks, and he relishes in the scratch of the beginnings of a beard against his skin. His fingers twist in Rick’s hair, pulling the man forward until his lips collide with Daryl’s. It’s molten and hot and not at all as frantic as Daryl would have imagined with the lust twisting in his gut as he takes the time to enjoy Rick’s candy-pink lips. 

They pull back, gasping for air, foreheads pressing together with only Daryl’s scattered bangs separating their hot, sticky skin. 

"S’yer turn," Daryl whispers, feeling his own breath return to him as it echoes off of Rick’s lips, and he mimics Rick as he raises the other man’s arm up between them, he flesh of his forearm hot against Daryl’s abdomen.

And, if Daryl ends up forgetting to check for ticks as he presses the man’s beautiful, slender fingers to his kiss-swollen lips, Rick doesn’t say anything. 


End file.
